House of the Spirits
by MirandaMinerva
Summary: Per a fic challenge, have used title of another Meryl Streep film to inspire a DWP story. This story very Miranda-centric.


**Summary:** Spring challenge ala 'mxrolkr' to use the title of a Meryl Streep film as inspiration for a DWP fic ; self-explanatory which film I was assigned  
**Disclaimers:** You know the drill - I own neither of the films or novels, and have no conflicts-of-interest to report regarding any products mentioned herein.  
**Premise/Setting:** Approx 8 years after DWP book/film (Caroline/Cassidy in high school, etc). Miranda & Andrea have been a couple for some portion of that time. We follow Miranda's thoughts/words/actions for a few days within a rather bad week. I know I didn't have to incorporate any of the actual book/film '_House of the Spirits_,' but I couldn't help myself from a teensy-weensy reference or few…

_**House of the Spirits**_

_Wednesday_

Miranda struck a line through a page of the budget before her. With a sigh, she paused, pain squeezing her ribs. There was so much red. She put the pen down, pushed back her chair, walked to the large window furthest from her desk.

All those little people walking around down there, many unable to understand the nuances, the art that is Verdi's _Falstaff_, Tchaikovsky's _1812 Festival Overture_, Picasso's _Nude Woman with a Necklace_, or Allen Ginsberg's _A Supermarket In California_. No, the shabbily dressed, poorly educated masses, plebeian in their approach to elements of culture, would never feel at ease wandering the halls of the Guggenheim or attending a performance at the Met. But, for no more than a fast food meal, they would pick up a copy of _Runway_. And, thanks to her tireless efforts, they could sit at home with their French fries and light beer, watching _American Idol_ while the current month's masterpiece sat on their laps awaiting clumsy hands and greedy eyes. If she was lucky, someone might pause on the flair of a _Balenciaga_ gown, the use of color and texture in a _Lanvin_ tunic or the carefully constructed asymmetry of a _Fendi_ bag. Yes, she lulled empty souls in with clever cover shots of pop culture icons before carefully dragging them through the glossy pages from one cover to the next with sometimes shocking, sometimes soothing images of current fashion that she felt they needed to see. She knew that the majority of the overweight, undernourished masses could never, would never purchase the actual clothes. But such facts didn't have to get in the way of showing them possibilities, selling them a momentary dream, a fleeting escape from reality. She actually did more than that. Along the way, between the images, she placed teasers of other art forms – pieces from talented writers, descriptions of upcoming museum displays, discussions about eye-misting orchestral performances, and – due to the overwhelming forces of market-based capitalism – carefully placed advertisements from more affordable fashion producers. Her work was flawlessly produced and sold in mass quantities with the same goal of addiction that drove _Coca-Cola_ and _Philip Morris_. Only her product was honorable and much more elusive – an image, a self-concept. She was damn good at it. The best in the business.

Despite all this, Irv Ravitz was requiring her to slash her budget – the third time in less than a year. Silly man didn't realize that _Runway_ kept people going when all else was against them.

The sky was overcast, and all the little people below were bundled up in overcoats, keeping the chilly air at bay. Spring had not yet committed itself and this worsened her mood all the more.

As if sensing her distress, the cell phone on her desk hummed to life, vibrating sporadically across a stack of papers in a haphazard path towards her laptop. She turned from the melancholy view, flipped the phone open.

'_Luncheon starts in a minute. You would die at the lack of designer couture. C&C are on a minor shopping spree. KBE, Andy'_

She smiled at the text. It had taken some work, but she had finally gotten the younger woman to agree to use actual words in her text messages rather than the shorthand her daughters' generation was overly keen on. Andrea was determined, however, to use a few sign-off abbreviations of her own creation – one of them being 'KBE', 'kiss behind ear.' Even as the reporter was currently 2500 miles away, Miranda felt her knees go a little weak, her mind recalling how Andrea quite frequently exploited the tender spot behind her ears. There and other places...

Allowing her current state to force her to sit back down, Miranda picked up her Montblanc pen once more and forged on. She wanted to finish dealing with the budget nightmare before her final appointment of the day – some dinner meeting with a potential advertiser.

Between the usual issues of the day, the budget nightmare, and the agonizing dinner conversation, Miranda's head was throbbing by the time she entered the empty townhouse at nine.

She paced the foyer, pajama-clad and wrapped in a robe, as she awaited the new Emily's arrival with the Book. Taking the tome wordlessly from the anxious girl just after ten, she made mental note to look up Emily's real name in the morning – it seemed the jittery brunette had made it beyond thirty days and could safely be called by her own birth name at this point, provided it wasn't too hideous. The last Emily had actually been '_Acura'_ and thankfully hadn't lasted ten days.

Wearily, Miranda climbed the three flights of stairs to the master suite, disrobed, and settled into bed with the latest version of the June issue. It was, admittedly, still in its early stages of development, but she wanted to get the basic structure set up by Saturday. Next week had been blocked off on her schedule for a family vacation, and she desperately wanted as few surprises as possible upon her return.

From the looks of things, her wants and hopes were being tested. Pages 53 through 65 were a travesty. Where did all this green come from? Someone down in the Art Department clearly imagined they were living in the Emerald City. Well, she would help make Oz as real as possible tomorrow – bringing the Wicked Witch of the West to life, in all her detestable glory. This was wholly unacceptable.

After half an hour of further edits, she tilted her head back against a pillow, her crown of glowing white hair feathering out against the cream-colored fabric. Sighing, she closed the Book for the night, sought out the bottle of extra-strength rapid-acting long-lasting Tylenol from the medicine cabinet.

Fifteen minutes later, when the call she had looked forward to all day finally came, the pain had not lessened one iota.

The girls told her about their great finds while shopping around San Francisco, the cable car conductor's tall tales, and the cute boy working at the gift shop at Ghirardelli Square. When both daughters had run out of steam, they passed the phone over to 'Andy.' The reporter related how exciting it had been to be able to attend the women's literary luncheon. As a birthday gift, Miranda had pulled more than a few strings to get Andrea a ticket to the event. She had not been amused to hear that it was being held across the country in California. For Andrea, however, such a sacrifice was worth it.

Once Caroline and Cassidy found out where and when Andrea was going, they staged a vigilant campaign to tag along. Their tactics included obnoxious reminders that Spring Break started the same week. Miranda had resisted their pleas as best she could. When Andrea advocated on the twins' behalf with '_it will give us bonding time_,' she relented and the two-day trip expanded into a week-long extravaganza. Thus, since Monday, she was very much alone in the townhouse, each night awaiting a call from the self-titled 'Three Musketeers.'

She listened attentively for a third night in a row to the carefree chatter of her otherwise studious and mature daughters and her caring mate. While it brought a smile to her face to hear how they were having fun, she missed them terribly. It wasn't a feeling she honestly relished.

Miranda's eyes were heavy as Andrea shared how Maya Angelou, Amy Tan, Danielle Steel and Isabel Allende each signed books for her and shared humorous anecdotes from their own life stories. Although Andrea was audibly excited, Miranda felt the ever-present pounding in her head. It was a fight to focus, to respond appropriately.

The younger woman stopped mid-story, "It's getting late, isn't it? Maybe we both need some sleep and we'll call earlier tomorrow."

"Andrea, are you rushing me off the phone?"

"You caught me. Totally busted. I have a hot date with Maya." They both chuckled at this.

"I'm not worried about her." She absent-mindedly ran a finger back and forth along a section of satin edging on the bed sheet.

"You're not worried about her. Hmm. Well how about Danielle Steel? You never know, I could give her some ideas for her next book…"

"Andrea, please," Miranda said with a lilt. She could just picture the warm smile, the residual dreamy look in wide, brown eyes after an afternoon spent with writing legends.

"Truth be told, I'm fighting off Isabel Allende. You know what they say about Latin lovers..."

"I don't care what they say, Andrea. And I don't need you doing any investigative work on the matter, either." There was a definite frustrated undertone now.

Andy muted her laughter, "That bad?"

She didn't respond. She couldn't – at least not without getting verklempt. Honestly, she had no control over her emotions when it came to Andrea. How she could be affected by mere _days_ of separation was frightening. No. No, she would blame it on the headache. It kept things simpler, easier that way.

"Hey," came the soft voice over the phone line. "I miss you, too. We'll be home soon. I promise."

The line was silent for a long minute.

"Now get some sleep, okay? Because if you don't, I'll end up getting a frantic call tomorrow from Sarah, begging me to help prevent you from laying off half the staff and killing Irv. And despite the thrill you get from firing people and from fantasizing about murdering your boss, it isn't healthy in the long run. I think they call it 'premeditated' murder for a reason."

Miranda rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, despite herself, the pain dulling.

"I…just haven't been sleeping well."

There was a brief pause before a similar confession.

"I thought it was just me. You know, a couple of the books I got signed today, I hadn't read yet. So, maybe if you can't sleep and I can't sleep, you could call and I'll read one of them aloud."

"Andrea."

"Definitely not the Danielle Steel, though. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure that certain scenes in her novel won't help me fall asleep at all." The editor shook her head in amusement.

"Good night, Andrea."

"Good night, Miranda."

After hanging up the line, she curled up under the covers and fell immediately to sleep.

Just before one in the morning, though, she was wide-awake, and despite changing her position several times, could not get comfortable. It gnawed at her – the empty bed, the empty house. After some hesitation, she reached for her cell, tapped a speed dial button. Within minutes, she was being lulled back to sleep by Andrea's voice reading aloud from '_House of the Spirits_'.

***

_Thursday_

Suffice to say, Thursday was a bit of a trial. Three make-up artists had quit in unison, giving no advance notice. Apparently, they had been hired on at _Project Runway_, which was returning to New York City for its next season. She would be sure to torpedo little Timothy Gunn for this.

When Irv came by after lunch to collect the hard copy of her budget cuts, she kept her thoughts focused on Saturday afternoon when her family was due to return. This mind game was the only way she kept from throwing him through her office window when he gave her that smug little grin. In actual fact, it was more than just thoughts of her family that spared him from a painful death – there was also the knowledge that throwing his portly little body through the double-paned glass would allow cold air in, thus causing unnecessary damage to her office and further delays to her work. Sometimes practicality won over desire.

That evening, the Book arrived early and she had to work to contain her joy at such luck. Perhaps there were competent employees on staff after all. Sitting with it at her desk in the downstairs den, she poured over the pages, making notes, adjusting the order of ads, checking each photo, each article, hoping to keep her mind busy while awaiting tonight's call. Remarkably, she had finished with her work before the familiar tones of _Rachmaninov's Symphony Number 3_ emanated from her phone.

"Hello, Caroline," Miranda's face lit up. She carried the Book with her out of the den, switching off lights as she went.

"Really? Well, I don't know. Doesn't NYU have a drama program?...Yes….Yes, I know your father loves California…Mm-hmmm…Well, what does Andrea think of UCLA?...Mm-hmm…Of course she did." She paused in the foyer to place the Book on a table near the front door. Closing her eyes briefly, she made a mental note to talk with Andrea. They needed to show a united front when it came to acceptable universities.

"No, Caroline. I'm still here," she intoned as she pulled the slim dry cleaning bag from the downstairs closet and carried it with her up the stairs.

After feigning interest in Caroline and Cassidy's newly hatched scheme of attending school on the West coast, she finally got a chance to talk to Andrea.

"Hey there. Give me ten minutes? We've just gotten back to the hotel. I'll call you back from my phone momentarily."

"Make it fifteen." She didn't want to rush her nightly ablutions and needed a moment to collect her thoughts. They disconnected and Miranda padded over to the closet in her stocking feet. After putting away her dry cleaning, she changed for bed, cleaned up, and organized the pillows so that if she reached over for Andrea during the night, she would at least have something to wrap her arms around.

'_I don't know why it is, but I have to laugh when she reveals me… she's got a way of talkin', don't why it is, but it lifts me up when we are walkin'…'_

She really needed to change the ring tone she had for Andrea. This melancholy tune simply was too sappy. She was getting soft. Marshmallow soft. How had this happened? She knew the answer, and could not, would not, do anything about it.

"Andrea."

"Hey, there. Are you all settled for the night?"

"Yes," she sighed. "So, it's happened, hasn't it? My girls are wanting to get as far away from me as they can and still be in the same country."

"Well, they haven't yet realized that Hawaii has schools, so we should be happy for that, right?"

"Don't, Andrea. I have no sense of humor tonight. Work was…it was work, for the first time in a very long time. My daughters tell me that they want to attend school far enough away that I will only see them for major holidays, if then. And you. You, Andrea, are not here. I have pillows strategically placed because I'm used to you being here next to me at night. I don't like this. I have never had a problem sleeping alone before, never had a problem with an empty house. This week has been--," she took a breath, forged on. "This week is filled with signs of how weak I really am. So, please excuse me if I have no sense of humor tonight."

Great. Just great. Now she was baring her soul. Could she get any worse than this? Was she turning into some silly, made-for-TV movie version of herself? She could see it now, some soft-focus Lifetime or Hallmark channel special, starring some B-list actress wearing designer knock-offs.

"I think we left off on page 56. Tell me when you're ready." And so Andrea read to her again. Thank goodness. No questions, no coddling. It was uncanny how Andrea Sachs, a woman half her age and an altogether different outlook on life could read her mind. She focused on the soothing voice and pretended it was coming from the pillow next to her.

Unfortunately, at two in the morning she was startled awake by Andrea's moans and mumbles. In her half-sleep state, she looked around the room, mussed up hair floating around her, wondering why her mate was home already. After a moment, she settled back down, fell asleep.

About half-past three, she was roused from slumber once again, this time quite sure she could hear her daughters chattering away, giggling, teasing and generally being louder than appropriate at that time of night. Once she recognized the absurdity of her thoughts, the room became silent again. With a deep sigh, she rolled over, pulled a pillow close, attempted to fall back asleep. She fought calling Andrea a second night in a row. Eventually, she padded down to the kitchen, made a hot toddy, and went back to bed.

It didn't help.

***

_Friday_

Everything seemed 'off' that day: She was uncoordinated during her morning yoga session, tripping over her mat and stubbing a toe in the process; When she attempted to call her assistant by her proper name (Sarah), for unknown reasons the girl burst into tears and required an extended stay in the ladies' room to collect herself; the Editor-in-Chief of _Technology Times_, of all people, revealed during Irv's weekly "Chief's Huddle" that he had gotten a slight bump in his monthly budget; and Testino had cancelled out of the photo shoot he was scheduled to do next week.

As the day was drawing to a close, she sent a text to Andrea: '_TGIF never felt so apropos.'_

The response: _'I'm counting hours. Will ring late tonight. Taking the girls to Alcatraz. Night tour. May leave them there. Thoughts?'_

Miranda covered her mouth with her hand to hold back a chuckle.

'_Be careful. They are my daughters. Painful revenge guaranteed if they escape.'_

She couldn't get home soon enough, to have both the day and the week over with. At eight-thirty, she received a call from the IT Department. The e-copy of the Book had been stored on a server that decided to die just before the nightly print job was to commence. They wouldn't be able to retrieve it and get a copy to her until sometime on Saturday. Well, at least it was the June issue and ahead of schedule. She would be thankful for that. It freed up her evening. An evening alone. Wasn't that grand?

She pulled out a suitcase and decided to make the best of things, using the time to prepare for next week. Despite the difficulty of giving up her work to spend the time embroiled in the soap opera that Caroline and Cassidy made their teen lives sound like, she actually enjoyed the peace of the cottage. The annual springtime week up at their Martha's Vineyard retreat was her time to recharge and reconnect – she actually enjoyed the trips more than the hubbub of Fashion Week travel, including Paris, 2001.

By nine o'clock she was done packing, years of traveling having made her quite efficient at the task. Andrea had indicated the call would be late, hadn't she? She sat down in her favorite wingback chair in the downstairs sitting room with a shot of whisky and the local jazz station wafting from the speaker system.

At eleven, she was awakened by Cassidy's laughter. Looking around, she realized she had been dreaming. Allowing Andrea to read to her the past couple of nights as she fell asleep had turned out to be a very bad idea. Rising and stretching her stiff limbs, she climbed the stairs and prepared for bed.

She must have dozed off again, because at one-thirty, she swore she heard the sound of feet running up and down the stairs. No one was there when she went to look. When she returned to flick off the lamp on her nightstand, a glance at her cell revealed a text waiting.

_'I don't want to wake you if you are sleeping, so if you don't call back shortly, will ring you before we board flight in AM. I love you.'_

She read and reread the message. It had been sent over an hour ago. No, she wouldn't call back. Andrea was likely asleep and she ought to be as well. She descended to the ground floor to pour more whisky, hoping it would prevent further absurd dreams.

"A toast. To the House of the Spirits." She smirked and tapped her glass against the half-empty Highland Park bottle then against the nearby bottles of vodka and gin.

She slept soundly for the remainder of the night.

***

_Saturday_

Andrea called while en route to the airport. She sounded tired.

"From the sounds of the girls voices in the background, I take it you decided not to leave them behind."

"As you warned, they are your daughters. They would have escaped and enacted revenge. They would win."

"What can I say? Preistly women always win."

There was a warm chuckle.

"I'm sure I don't hear you laughing at me."

"No. I'm not, actually. I'm thinking that the '_House of the Spirits_' that we've been reading is a little bit true."

She wondered briefly if Andrea knew about her dreams and the absurd toast last night.

"I think your family motto is Estaban's motto – 'Those who have always won will win again.'"

"You didn't sleep much, did you?"

"The girls were wired - we stayed up way too late. I'm hoping to get some sleep on the plane. Have you started packing for the cottage?"

"My bags are ready to go."

"Your efficiency puts me to shame, Miranda. Alright, we're about to pull up to the terminal. You know, since the motto from the novel works so well, maybe we should consider renaming the cottage, too. Estaban's mansion was 'Las Tres Marias'. I'm thinking 'Las Tres Priestlys.' Whatcha think?"

"I think you better get some sleep on the flight. If I'm going to win again, I'm very much looking forward to collecting a prize tonight."

"Maybe I should take trips like this more often," Andrea teased.

With that, they ended the call.

When Caroline and Cassidy arrived home that evening, she gave them each a fierce hug, "I think we need to have some discussions about college while we're out at the Vineyards."

"You mean while we're out at 'Las Tres Priestlys,'" chastised Cassidy. Caroline nodded her agreement.

"Andy shared that idea with you, did she?"

"Yeah. We like it."

Andrea broke in, eyes twinkling, "Don't I get a hug, too?" Miranda pulled her into her arms, feeling her body fully press into contact with that of the slender, younger woman. She slipped a hand behind Andrea's neck and didn't care what her daughters saw as she placed light kisses upon lips she had been missing. The pecks slowed, became longer caresses and tongues greeted one another after the extended absence.

"Get a room, you two."

"Geez, Andy. What are you doing? Mom looks like a sex-starved maniac. Do you know what that's doing to us?"

"We should never have let them be apart this long. I can't even look at them."

"How are we going to afford the therapy bills?"

"That's enough. Go unpack. Dinner's at seven." Miranda admonished as she slowly pulled back from the embrace.

"No thanks, Mom. We've been traumatized enough for one evening."

"No way we're having dinner here while the two of you play footsy under the table and whatever else old people do when they're in love," Caroline shook her strawberry blonde head.

"I'm having dinner over at Jessica's," Cassidy piped up. Miranda kept one of Andrea's hands clasped in her own as they stood there, facing the teenagers.

"And whose house will you be escaping to?" Andrea teased Caroline. Miranda was still wrapping her head around the fact that her daughters thought she was old – that Andrea might be old. And what was wrong with playing 'footsy' under the table?

"Andy, we're BOTH going to Jessica's."

"Okay. Well, be back by…," she looked to Miranda. Getting nothing, she continued, "Nine forty-five. And in bed by ten-thirty. I think we want to be on the road by lunch tomorrow, right?"

Miranda felt Andrea squeezing her hand. She forced her head to dip in a small nod. She realized, in that moment, they were a normal family. Well, as normal a family as any. No matter the dreams that robbed her of sleep, Napoleonic superiors testing her patience, incompetent employees dousing the pages of the Book in green, or even...even daughters teasing her for being old. She always won.

"What was that motto, again?" She didn't care that her voice cracked or that her daughters heard it.

"'Those who have always won will win again.'"

"Indeed." She blinked, found her eyes drifting over Andrea. Clearing her throat, she continued.

"Caroline, Cassidy. Do I need to repeat what she said? Or did the fog affect your ability to think? Be sure to unpack before you go." She tugged the younger woman towards the kitchen where a stew was simmering, ignoring Andrea's exclamation.

"Miranda!"

The sound of Caroline and Cassidy dragging their bags up the stairs echoed through the house.

"Come along, Andrea. If it's just the two of us at dinner, we can do more than play footsy."

The sound on the stairs switched from a slow, methodical 'thump' to something more akin to stampeding buffalo. Andrea's hand in hers as they moved through the hallway, her daughters banging around upstairs – all was music to her ears. The house had been revived.

She would win against Irv's budget cuts and she would win the battle with her daughters over what colleges they attended. She had won and she would win again.

The scent of the stew hit her full force as they entered the kitchen. She finally let go of the hand she was holding and moved to the stove to stir the mixture of vegetables, oats, broth. There was a kind of therapy to be found in cooking – especially when there was somebody to cook for, other than herself. A pair of arms encircled her waist as she mused over the steaming pot.

"While '_The House of the Spirits_,' has been a great story, I think you missed something about the motto."

There were nibbles along her neck, moving from the collar of her blouse and slowly ascending towards…yes, towards a certain sweet spot behind her ear.

"Mmmm, What did I miss?"

"Well, if you always win, then someone must lose."

She said nothing, unsure where this was going.

"I think we might need to test whether something more along the lines of a win-win is possible."

"What did you have in mind?"

"You, me, and the whole house to ourselves until nine forty-five." The warm breaths of air against the nape of her neck made it exceptionally hard to concentrate.

"Andrea, you do know I strive for perfection in everything?"

Cool air hit her back as Andrea stepped away to pour them each a glass of wine.

"With your drive and my youthful endurance, how can we lose?"

She stared in wonder at Andrea's silly grin, the way her hair fell about her shoulders, the curves, the draping of her clothes, the teasing sight of an exposed neck. And she marveled at the fact that no matter how much culture she tried to expose _Runway_ readers to, there were some pieces of art that weren't meant for sharing.

As a goblet of dark red liquid was placed in front of her, she raised it, "To true beauty and, I suppose, to Isabel Allende."

"To winning," Andy replied as they clinked glasses.

~That's All~

**A/N:** When it comes to romans à clef, I realize DWP not enchanting (especially compared to the film version). However, Isabel's '_La Casa de los Espiritus_,' does not disappoint – and the movie, as you may know – excellente (Vanessa Redgrave, Glenn Close y Meryl Streep – el cielo en la tierra – heaven on earth).

**A/N 2 (Boring you with details):** All four authors mentioned live in the general SF area; Fashion Week 2001 = Tom Ford (only time Miranda smiled at a designer's pre-show presentation); Caroline's ringtone = piece she played at the recital that Miranda missed when stuck in Miami; Andy's ringtone = a Billy Joel song; Indeed, Project Runway moved back to NY in 2009 for the 2010 season; Apologies to any reader/s named 'Acura' – no offence intended; Apologies to all who play 'footsy' under the table – no ageism intended. I think that about covers it, yep. Thanks for reading.


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